


fuck you emma

by michaelclifford



Category: fuck you emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelclifford/pseuds/michaelclifford





	fuck you emma

It’s dark outside when Luke sees Michael. Well, Michael and a roadie hooking up. Not just making out. They’re, like, hooking up. Her jeans are shoved down to around mid-thigh, regular black panties not following far behind, and Michael’s stubby fingers are pushing in and out of her while he kisses her neck. He knows he should just carry on his way, put his earbuds in and pretend he doesn’t hear her Lindsey’s (Caitlin’s?) heavy breath from across the way. Maybe sleep it of, pretend his cheeks aren’t burning bright red.

They’re somewhat behind the bus, being sort of discreet, and if it weren’t for Michael’s converse scuffing against the dirty parking lot accompanied by his weird moans/groans Luke probably wouldn’t have even noticed them. But he did, and now he’s watching like a creep while Amanda or Jennifer palms Michael’s hard-on through his jeans.

She has her fingers tugging on Michael’s dead hair, head thumping on the bus wall when she tilts it back. She moans, not in pain, but like she’s about to cum.

“Oh, fuck. Please, please. Please.” Her voice is hushed and gasp, desperate. Luke sees how Michael gets on his knees, pulling her pants down a bit more. She shoves her hips forward so she can rut against Michael’s face when he strains his neck to taste her.

Michael lets out a groan. Luke has to rub his sweaty palms against his jeans. Michael opens his eyes to look up at her, pressing his open mouth against the roadie’s inner thigh. He thinks Michael glances at him, but he’s not sure. Whatever it is, it makes Luke jump and keep on walking, shoving his earbuds in. He plays The Used as loud as he can.

-

It’s two in the morning when Luke flops over onto his back. He’s over the covers because the hotel room’s too hot in the heat of summer. It’s been twenty four hours since he saw Michael and the girl and it shouldn’t be a big deal because they’ve all hooked up with people. But it is for some reason. He hears Ashton’s breath hitch in his sleep before there’s a small groan. The lamp turns on.

“Luke—” Ashton starts.

“What’s that roadie’s name?”

When Luke looks over Ashton’s his eyebrows are furrowed, confused. “There are multiple roadies.”

“Short brunette,” Luke says. Ashton shrugs. “Uh, think Michael’s hooking up with her.”

“Melissa?” Ashton suggests. “Michael’s been hooking up with her since, like… Last Thursday.”

It’s not Melissa. Melissa is awesome— she buys them shitty beer because none of them are old enough to drink in the States yet. Melissa is also bleach blonde and apparently hooking up with Michael. Huh. “Not Melissa.”

It looks like a lightbulb goes off over Ashton’s head. “Tatiana. I didn’t know Michael and Tatiana were hooking up.” Ashton doesn’t look surprised. He even yawns. “You know Michael, he gets to know everyone on tour.”

Luke swallows and nods, blinking. He does know Michael. He knows how Michael tends to become some kind of sexual energizer bunny when he’s on tour. Luke wants to think eating pussy between buses is a bit out of character for him, though. He usually sticks to twitter flirting.

He can hear the familiar scuffle of converse outside his door. It’s funny how they can tell who’s who from each other’s footsteps, walking patterns and shit. It’s a band thing, he supposes.

“Michael’s weird on tour.”

There’s empty space where Ashton’s answer is supposed to be. He finally mumbles, “Michael’s always weird,” like he’s half asleep. Which he is.

Luke stares at the ceiling some more.

-

There’s a stomach flu hybrid floating around on tour. Michael shows up to sound check looking paler than usual, the sleeves of his sweater pulled over his palms.

Ashton frowns. Michael shoots Calum a bitchy look when Calum suggests he rests.

Luke thinks his skin looks too tight, shoulders pinched and tense and his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He plays fine. Just fine, though. Quietly. He follows the script and doesn’t goof off or run around stage. It’s weird, the lack of energy, even with Calum pulling off some risky riffs and Ashton banging away during his solos.

When Luke looks back, Michael’s head is dropped down. He fingers the frets clumsily. Calum walks over to him, says something in his ear. Michael glances up with glassy eyes. When the song’s over, he runs off stage, guitar propped up against an amplifier.

They make it off stage only to see Michael with his head shoved in the hallway’s trashcan, violent retching sounds echoing against the sides while his shoulders heave. Everything smells slightly acidic and, quite frankly, like Michael just puked up his guts.

Ashton goes over to put a hand on Michael’s back.

“Don’t touch me,” he echoes. “I’m fine.”

More retching noises. Calum looks grossed out. Luke doesn’t blame him.

Michael spits in the garbage once, twice, before pulling his head out of the trash and rubbing at his mouth. “What the fuck.”

“Are you… done?” Luke asks, eyebrow lifting.

Michael nods, shaking. His knuckles are white, nails digging into the flesh of his palm.

“Fuck. I’m gonna go get John,” Calum says.

“No, don’t get John. I’m fine.” Michael sways a bit. “Fuck.”

“So you agree,” Calum says. Michael shoots him another bitchy look.

Ashton butts in, always the voice of reason. “He’ll figure it out anyway. Y’know, if he sees you. You look like shit, man.”

Michael’s shaking, curled in on himself. His skin is translucent. Luke thinks he can see every vein, like those weird arctic fish he learned about in middle school. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Okay,” Luke says. “Let’s just, uh. Sit down.”

They do. Well, Michael does. He actually collapses on the couch, sinking into the leather, pulling his knees up like a kid.

Ashton looks at Luke, then Calum, then Michael. His arms are crossed over his chest like a dad. “I’m gonna get John before he dies.”

“I’m right here, you fuck.”

“You can’t play like this, Mike.” Luke licks his lips. “Is this, like, food poisoning? It better be food poisoning.”

“It’s just nerves. I can play like this. I just did play like this.”

Calum snorts and Ashton returns. “John says to take an aspirin and get over it.”

-

Michael plays the show that night. He’s only a bit better due to the aspirin, walking around instead of standing still, but he’s definitely withdrawn, playing with hair in his eyes and his shoulders slumped. Luke only makes one silly gesture, telling the roadies to turn up his guitar a bit louder and that he needs more backing vocals, but other than that the show goes smoothly.

Michael’s guitar is slung over his back, puking in the same trashcan as earlier when the show ends. When he hands Tatiana his guitar, he can’t help but notice she’s a bit more sluggish than usual.

-

Luke’s watching All Time Low side-stage with Michael, who’s mostly bounced back from his flu. He still has that sickish look in his eyes, but that’s expected. Tatiana’s probably about to overdose on Alka-Seltzers.

“Jack doesn’t look good,” Luke says. Not that Jack’s not handsome— he’s very handsome, but his movements are short and tight and he looks like he’s about to blow chunks whenever he has to speak to the audience.

“He probably has what I had,” Michael says, shifting. “It’s going around.”

Luke, like, inwardly frowns. Outwardly, he looks at Michael and nods. “Yeah.”

“Jack’s amazing, though. He’ll be fine,” Michael adds.

He does make it, but books it off stage as soon as he can. The audience doesn’t seem to mind too much.


End file.
